For Some Have Broken Faces
by HopelessOsaka
Summary: alfred/francis/arthur. hsau. two young men run to escape the summer rain. like zeus in olympia, when francis looks at his reflection, he sees two different things: a supporter and a whore. heartbreak through three scenarios.


**Pairing: ** Alfred/Francis/Arthur (also Francis/Arthur/Alfred and a little Ludwig/Francis/Gilbert)  
**  
Setting:** High school AU

**Warnings:** Francis' language. Use of human names. Bright!Alfred (oh my).

**Summary:** two young men run to escape the summer rain. like zeus in olympia, when francis looks at his reflection, he sees two different things: a supporter and a whore. heartbreak through three scenarios.

I had seven different versions of this fic—all severely complementary of one another—before I settled on this one…and even then I started the second scene over about four or five times, and the last scene over thrice. _Holy crap it hated me._ Anyway, despite the difficulty it presented me, I am so glad I got it done.

It actually helped immensely when I decided to center it around **hetalia_contest** 's week 03 prompt, "mirrors," even if implicitly. **[ edit ]** And it managed to snag second place, amazingly enough! ヽ(ﾟｰﾟ*ヽ) Thank you all who voted, so much.

* * *

**FOR SOME HAVE BROKEN FACES**

* * *

Alfred's hand is hotter than his when Francis grasps it; he ignores the surprised jolt of his junior as he _pulls_, and they begin to run across the modest pink-and-brown gravel-surfaced road, the leather of their sandals barely restraining the feel of smooth, round, heated stones against their feet, (_slap slap slap _as they go). The torrent of rain soon follows, chasing the two in vain as they duck, in the nick of time, beneath the black hood of a classic café. Francis can appreciate its name wryly, catching a stray glimpse of it before the two boys take cover: "the coffee shop" (in simple English, as if to say 'upon our oath, we are _not_ trying to desecrate the French language').

He frowns soon after, however, blinking away the spray of water that attacks his eyes; the rain reaps vengeance on their good fortune, assailing their body with the strength of hard mists. He turns to Alfred, watching him attempt to decently wipe the strewn water off of his glasses with the tail of his polo shirt, (he is nothing like Antonio or Arthur or Gilbert, all the boys he'd really liked kissing; not wild in spirit, but too carefree), before saying, with an exaggerated sigh,

"This completely beats our purpose here," Eyes half-lidded slide away from the radiant young man to the brightly lit shop, "but you do enjoy coffee a little too much, don't you? I suppose there'd be no harm in taking a break…"

"Coffee?" At this, Alfred presses up against the glass, peering in more closely as he slips the frames back onto his nose, and exclaims, laughing, "Thank God! Though, even if you say it beats our purpose, it seemed like we were buying more for _you_ than for Ar…"

He then looks away, abruptly (to the legs of people rushing by, seeking shelter), still smiling. He does not complete what he means to say, instead cheering, "Well, let's go, go, _go_—"

Francis realizes only when Alfred squeezes his hand tighter that they had never let go in the first place.

* * *

The tulip flowers amidst the center of the courtyard are in soft, vibrant bloom by April, colouring Francis' surroundings in pink and white. Gilbert lays upon those tulips dazedly, crushing about a dozen in his sprawl, and Francis sits upon Gilbert's belly, staring down at his face. Gilbert's lips are wet, and bruised a tinge of purple, he notices, absentmindedly, (and Arthur's beloved tulips are in ruins before the summer's beginning, something that will never be forgiven when he comes back to school, after emerging from that damn _hikikomori_ shell),

"What are you doing to my brother, Francis?" asks a low, solemn voice from behind him, patiently.

Francis raises his head, vaguely looking to the array of colours nearby him (there are particular pinks and whites that do not move along with the pensive, cool breeze of an upcoming downpour; they are preoccupied by honeybees, butterflies, wasps).

He laughs, "Why, I was about to _fuck_ him."

Gilbert retorts, immediately, "More like he was about to _cry_." Francis can feel him grimace beneath him, from the sudden, shallow rise and fall of his stomach, (it is not because Francis' knee has _inadvertently_ banged into his ribcage, but because he remembers, '_Elizaveta, _Student Council _President'_). "H- He's got blood on his collar, Ludwig. I thought it was lipstick, at first."

There is a rumble that rises from Ludwig's breast to escape from his throat, in exasperation. "I see," he says,

before Francis shrieks, hoisted onto Ludwig's back with one arm and left to hang there like a sack of potatoes.

"What the _fuck_ do you think you're doing!?" he chokes, (and is reminded, after tasting the aflame, coppery fluid still leaking from his mouth, of the same, sour words Arthur had spat against his face before striking at him ruthlessly earlier in the morning).

"No one outside clubs should be on campus after four. So I'm taking you home," says Ludwig, "Don't start to cry, Francis."

"I don't cry," he says, while the corners of his eyes begin to sting. "Whores don't cry…"

* * *

The café is charming, if a little plain. It is not too large, but its petite, circular tables are spread out across the room, and there are dim lamps that spread across the shop, glowing quietly, warmly against the raging torrent outside (it goes _splatter splatter splatter_ above them, like liquid bodies smashing against glass).

Francis shudders, the heat of the café combating the chill of his skin from damp clothing (and something else inside him); Alfred notices this from their clasped hands, his still hotter, and turns to him, immediately shrugging his bomber jacket from his shoulders, (precious to Alfred, Francis knows) laughingly wrapping it about Francis' own shoulders, despite protest.

Alfred's face is too close to his when he says, quietly surprised, "Your build's also smaller than mine, Francis." Francis looks away uneasily while Alfred orders, cheekily engaging in a light tiff with the young woman behind the counter about how much more limited the selection happened to be, compared to Starbucks. He teases Francis when it is his turn to order, saying,

"He may look miserable, but don't think we won't be splitting the tab—Christ, this guy had me _wait _on him, and made me carry _his_ bags after him the entire afternoon!" He is punched weakly in the arm for the joke, and the girl shrugs casually, replying that she didn't know how it worked between two guys (_dating_, she leaves out, but Francis hears it clearly).

Alfred pays for him regardless, and before long they find themselves sitting across from each other, waiting. Alfred supports his right hand of his cheek and his elbow on the table, unlike his senior, who sits quietly and primly. The young man is calm for once, and stares at Francis, eyelids half-fallen,

"Even if you play around," Alfred says, "I know that you're head over heels for him. Arthur."

Francis manages to still the trembling of his hands on his lap, right then. In a moment, he replies lightly, "You weren't the first to realize it."

"Maybe not."

Alfred turns away, staring at the shower outside. The windows are all blackened; (figures move like hulking monsters behind every glass, illuminated only occasionally through lightning, thunder).

He queries, "Did you tell him? He must have beaten you up bad if you did; you're wearing my shirt."

"Your dad told me I could."

"Liar," Alfred laughs again, as he had by the counter (except, like behind the blackened windows, something strange lurks in his voice), "You came through the window again. I saw it open. Besides, when I came home after practice, Ivan was twisting that rusty, battered old pipe on the dining table, with his darling bottle of vodka by his side. If you come back to my room, we're gonna have to lock the door, like usual."

Their eyes meet; (Francis watches as sea green irises shine and waver against the stark contrast of lightning, inattentively),

"Arthur loves you," he says, feigning boredom (though his heart wrenches, _bdam bdam bdam_, like the counting down of seconds until the next bout of thunder), "But you like someone else, don't you? Why don't you happen to tell that person?"

The girl calls out the number of their order. Alfred merely smiles, and says, cheerily,

"Because he's already head over heels for Arthur. Weren't you listening?"

* * *

**END**

* * *


End file.
